


She

by scepticallyopenminded



Series: Original Works [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scepticallyopenminded/pseuds/scepticallyopenminded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote the first couple of paragraphs a while ago and finished it up for a flash fiction for a class and I like this story a lot but I'm not sure how exactly good it actually is. But I certainly like it and the thought behind it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	She

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first couple of paragraphs a while ago and finished it up for a flash fiction for a class and I like this story a lot but I'm not sure how exactly good it actually is. But I certainly like it and the thought behind it.

It kills me not to remember. I’ve all but forgotten the colour of her eyes. Where her scars are, what they’re shaped like, how she got them. How rough the skin on her hands was. I could tell a tale as old as anything with the memories of how we got here, but I couldn’t tell you barely anything about Her. 

There is no reconciliation. 

I could tell you what my brothers favourite colour was, even though he had died twelve years before; I could tell you the name of our first dog, although I was merely two when he’d been put down; I could describe to you in life-like detail the exact feeling it had been to be wrapped in my mother’s arms when I was sixteen and had broken up with my first girlfriend. 

I could recite these things without thinking about them, almost, and yet I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what Her hair had smelled like, what She’d like to bake or even if She’d been a good cook, or any of numerous details about Her I should have been able to say. To describe. 

When She’d gone, She’d taken the bit of me that had become so acquainted with her, as well, and I couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t recall anything more than a faceless head, a blur of an image, not even Her name, Her age; absolutely nothing. 

When She’d gone, She had ripped some part of my soul, my heart, and my brain out along with her, taken all her trinkets and clothes and left absolutely nothing for me to even imagine Her as, nothing for me to associate her with. It had been less than three weeks since Her departure, and I didn’t know a thing, and I had never had a moment in my life when I hadn’t known everything. She’d taken my very livelihood away from me, with her, and I didn’t know how, or why. 

I could remember the very words my third grade teacher had uttered on the very first day, the expression my grandmother had the first day she’d seen me at age four, the smell of the special vanilla chai cookies my father used to make before he’d gotten sick when I was six, could imitate the meow-ing the white cat that I’d housed in my treehouse for three days when I was seven. 

I couldn’t say anything about Her past the fact that She was a Her, and we’d spent three years together, and She’d gone, without so much as a word to me, during the night three weeks before. 

For someone who could remember everything always for all of eternity, not remembering hurt more than anything else ever had or could or would.


End file.
